


Sick, Stubborn, and Stupid

by galoots



Category: Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 01:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galoots/pseuds/galoots
Summary: Donald pushes himself too hard while he's sick, and Scrooge has to take care of him. It's a bit difficult to care for your nephew when he incessantly insists he isn't sick.





	Sick, Stubborn, and Stupid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue1Jay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue1Jay/gifts).

> A belated birthday present for my dear friend Jay as well as my fic for day 6 of team uncle week!

The bitter winter wind sliced through Donald’s heavily bundled form like a knife’s edge. His slow, winding route up Killmotor hill came to a temporary halt as a violent shiver racked his body. Pulling his scarf tighter around his beak, Donald made labored steps through the thick snow. Duckburg had gotten several inches overnight, so his normally long walk to work was made even longer. Bad weather was much less charming once the glamour of the holiday season wore off. 

The holidays, in fact, had come to an end a few days prior, along with his incredibly short-lived vacation. Grey, listless January lumbered into town, bringing with it the disappointed march of children back to school, and adults back to work. Donald’s normal shift at his uncle’s bin resumed, meaning early mornings, a troublesome commute, and long days spent polishing coins, filing taxes, and handling other odd jobs his uncle needed doing. But hell, it paid. So here he was, fighting his way up the snow-blanketed hill on a freezing January morn.

Last night’s tell-tale tickle of a sore throat had turned full blown pharyngitis when he awoke this morning. An unsurprising turn of events, since he’d nursed the triplets back to health after they caught a nasty virus only a week prior. Throughout his morning routine and his commute to work, his under-the-weather feeling turned into more of a _maybe-I-should-go-to-the-hospital_ feeling, but he continued on anyway. _Sure_, he had sick days saved up and _sure_ he felt like death was wrapping its icy grip around him and _sure_ his kids had softly suggested that it might not be in his best interest to head into work today, but those were just excuses. Mind over matter was the way to think of it! If he didn’t acknowledge this so-called bug, then it had no power over him. With willpower you could overcome any physical problem, and Donald had a will of steel. Besides, a silly little fever couldn’t stand in the way of his paycheck, not after he had splurged on a spectacular Christmas for his kids. In hindsight, it hadn’t been the smartest choice, given his lean holiday bonus, but the spirit of the season had trumped his sense of frugality.

Climbing the stairs to Scrooge’s office left him winded after a few steps, forcing him to pause to catch his breath on the landing. Several times he had to wait out nasty coughing fits that racked his body with violent spasms. Despite these delays, he was still able to reach Scrooge’s office on time. He greeted his uncle while he hung up his coat and hat, deciding to leave his scarf and thick woolen sweater on to combat the chills bombarding his body. Even inside, sheltered from the wind and the fire stoked blazing hot in his uncle’s old-fashioned cast iron wood stove, he felt the winter’s chill deep done in his bones. His head swam, feeling thick as molasses, as he grabbed his rag and tub of polish. He barely registered his uncle’s greeting and small talk about the weather as he stumbled to the Bin’s interior. Scrooge’s concerned inquiry about his well-being was lost on sinuses so clogged it was as if he had shoved cotton in his ears.

His descent down the ladder leading to the coins was an arduous one—his sense of balance was all in a tizzy and his hands clammy on the rungs. A strong dizzy spell hit him hard when he attempted another step down, his sweaty hand slipping off the rung, sending him hurtling to the coins stacked high below. 

For once, the tinkle of metal on metal didn’t cause a thrill to spark down Scrooge’s spine. Instead, a keen sense of dread settled in his stomach, launching him up from his office chair, over his desk, and to the ledge overseeing his three cubic tons of money.

His nephew was usually groggy and unresponsive in the morning, typical since the boy much preferred to sleep late. But that morning, he’d stumbled into Scrooge’s office like a man possessed, barely responding and marching forward like an automaton. Scrooge’s fears were confirmed once he peeked over the ledge and spied the prostrate body of his nephew below. He scrambled down the ladder, calling for Duckworth to ready the company car.

Donald was conscious but delirious, so Scrooge’s queries about how he felt were meet with incoherent answers. Inspecting the boy himself, nothing seemed broken, but he was hot to the touch and panting shallowly. The damn fool was sick as a dog! Hauling him up onto his back, Scrooge started for the ladder to carry him out of the bin.

Donald awoke in his bed with a yawn. He smacked his beak, content to fall back asleep, letting his eyes shut close again. Before he drifted back asleep, he thought how strange the quality of light was at this hour. It was far too bright out for six am on a winter morning; it should be still be dark out. The slow, subtle descent of panic wormed its way into his heart as he realized what this meant. He'd overslept. Jumping out of bed, he tore off his pajamas and threw on his sailor suit. Uncle Scrooge hated nothing more than a tardy worker and, given how bright it was, Donald was very, _very _tardy. He could see his end with unshrouded eyes—Scrooge was going to kill him.

There was no time to shower, no time for breakfast, barely even time to stop and think. He hurtled down the hallway, careening around the corner almost slipping before he grabbed the banister to steady himself. He started down the stairs only to trip over his own feet after a few steps and tumble the rest of the way down, landing with a thud.

“Donald?”

That thick Scottish brogue could only belong to one man—his ornery Uncle Scrooge. It was too late for him. The old boy was already here to chew him out. Donald screwed his eyes closed for a moment. Farewell kids! Farewell Daisy! Farewell temperamental Fate! Life was short and unkind, but at least he’d find a swift end. And he’d never have to see Gladstone again.

A strong arm grasped his own and Donald held his breath, thinking it would surely bring about his death, only to find that he had been pulled to his feet. He readied an apology as Scrooge lead him by the arm into the kitchen, following his uncle in a guilt-ridden slink. Scrooge was frowning heavily, almost grimacing.

Maybe, if he launched into an apology, he could head off the worst of the yelling. “Uncle Scrooge, I am so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to oversleep, I—”

Scrooge pushed firmly on his shoulders, plunking Donald down into the chair he had pulled out from the kitchen table. He opened his mouth to speak again but his apology was cut off with the harsh rap of Scrooge’s cane against the floor. He winced at the sound, shrinking into his chair. Scrooge had to be furious with him.

“I take you all the way home to get some rest and you catapult yourself down the stairs the second I leave you alone?” Scrooge scoffed, pushed Donald’s chair in, and walked over to the stove.

Donald pried one confused eye open, spotting his uncle puttering around the kitchen in the frilly, pink apron Daisy had given him last Valentine’s day. What the hell was going on?

His uncle placed a bowl of soup in front of him with a tut of disapproval. “Eat up. It’s just from a can. Nothing fancy. You know I’m not much of a cook.” Before sitting down next to him, Scrooge tucked a napkin into Donald’s collar.

Donald wrapped his chilled hands around the warm bowl, peering at his perplexed reflection in the surface of the chicken noodle soup. He sipped the soup directly from the bowl, not bothering to pick up the spoon next to him. His head swam with confusion. He could barely breathe through his nostrils. His body felt achy and sore, but not from his fall. His body was feverish, yet he felt chilled all the same. And Uncle Scrooge was in his kitchen, wearing his apron, and serving him soup. Had the world gone mad?

Scrooge tugged the lapel of Donald’s uniform like he was a commanding officer during an inspection. “You changed into your day clothes too? After all that trouble I went through to get you into your pajamas?” Scrooge released his hold on him and sighed. “Foolish little thing. You’ve got no sense in that feathery head of yours!”

Scrooge was giving him a scolding, but not the one he had anticipated. His uncle sounded exasperated, not angry and he made no mention of his tardiness, speaking confusing sentences Donald couldn’t parse.

“What are you talking about?” Donald fixed his uncle with a wild-eyed look. “I thought you were here to yell at me for being late?”

Scrooge knit his eyebrows together, leaning forward to get a closer look at Donald. “You don’t remember coming in to work?”

“I was at the Money Bin?”

His uncle wore a genuine look of concern. “How sick are you?” Reaching across the table, Scrooge laid a hand on Donald’s forehead to feel his temperature. He startled at the touch, feeling it far too tender to be the action of his uncle. Scrooge didn’t hesitate to close the gap between his hand and his nephew’s forehead. “Just checking your temperature lad.” He muttered something about Donald being awfully jumpy, then deliberated for a moment or two. “You feel hot.”

Standing up decisively, Scrooge walked over to pull out Donald’s chair. “Head back upstairs. You need to get some rest.” Despite the stern tone, Donald remained seated, trying to recall whether or not he’d left the house that morning like Scrooge had claimed. Growing impatient as his nephew failed to comply, Scrooge huffed and pulled him to his feet. With an arm wrapped protectively around him, he walked Donald out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom.

Donald thought of complaining about the tight grip Scrooge had on him and readied a remark about his ability to climb the stairs all his own, but paused when he remembered he had tripped on the way down. Whatever. He felt too tired to bicker anyway. Let the old man carry him, he thought sullenly—too proud to acknowledge the rubbery feeling in his legs or how they shook with each step.

Back upstairs in Donald’s bedroom, Scrooge pulled a fresh pair of pajamas from Donald’s wardrobe, placing them in a neat pile next to where Donald sat on his bed. Donald waited a few moments for Scrooge to leave, granting him some privacy to change his clothes, but Scrooge continued to stand in front of him.

“Um.” Donald mumbled, his voice sounding nasally and pinched to his stuffed ears.

“Well, what are you waiting for, boy? An invitation? Arms up!” Scrooge commanded.

Dumbly, Donald lifted his arms without knowing why. His uncle pulled his sailor’s uniform up over his head with a swift movement. Donald jerked to cover himself as a self-conscious reflex as Scrooge folded his top and placed it off to the side.

“I-I can do it myself!” Donald tried to swat Scrooge’s hand away from but found it difficult to do while continuing to cover himself.

“Oh please.” Scrooge fended off his pathetic attempts to save himself, catching him by the wrist, and guiding his arms through the sleeves of his button-up nightshirt. “I used to change your diapers, you absolute numpty. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Besides,” Scrooge skipped over the buttons for now, turning to pick up the pajama bottoms, “I know if I left you to your own devices, you’d just fall asleep in your clothes like a ninny.”

Donald grumbled unhappily about this accusation, regardless of the fact his uncle hit the nail square on the head; he was feeling so exhausted he wouldn’t have even bothered to climb the stairs back up to his room, let alone change into pajamas. Mostly dressed, Scrooge nudged him to lie down, and Donald sluggishly slipped his legs under the blankets. He started to button up his shirt, but found his hands didn’t want to comply, fumbling over the first button with little success. With another tut, Scrooge pushed his hand away and placed it by his side, giving it a little pat as if to say _keep it right there. _Scrooge pulled a little tub of Vic’s Vaporub from his nightstand, uncapped it, and began to rub it gently into his chest. Once again, he felt the urge to fight his uncle for treating him like an invalid but was only able to blink groggily as he fought against his heavy eyelids. He must have dozed off for the next thing he knew Scrooge had finished dressing him, set up a humidifier, and tucked him in tight. For a moment, he wondered if this was a fever dream because of how unreal everything felt.

“Rude, Donald.” Scrooge bat him lightly on the head with a newspaper. “Forget to use inner voice again?”

Rubbing his head, Donald turned to see Scrooge sitting casually in a rocking chair he set up next to his bed. He colored as he realized he must have spoken aloud by mistake.

“To answer your question, no this isn’t a fever dream. Although you did have one earlier in the car.” Scrooge unfolded his newspaper, hiding his face behind newsprint. “Kept crying for your _Unca.” _

Donald didn’t need to see Scrooge’s face to know that self-satisfied smug grin he abhorred was plastered all over it.

“No, I didn’t!” He firmly denied his uncle’s allegations but, frankly, he had no memory of his trip back home.

Scrooge stood up, throwing his newspaper back on the cushion of his chair, to tousle Donald’s head feathers. “Aw, someone’s fussy.” Donald leveled his best grimace at his uncle but had the sinking feeling that it came off as petulant rather than intimidating. For Scrooge’s mocking grin only intensified as he sat down on the bedspread next to him. “Oh,” Scrooge crooned, “What’s the matter? Does the wee barra need a hug from his _unca?” _

His head rocked as Scrooge gave his noggin a little push with a smarmy chuckle. He groused, folding his arms over his chest.

_“Anyway. _I’m fine now so you can go. Actually, I feel better than ever! I can head back to the Bin with you.” Donald moved to throw the covers off of him, but Scrooge stopped him.

“You’re not going anywhere." Scrooge raised an eyebrow at him, grabbed his arms, and easily pinned him back into bed. “You are as weak as a kitten!”

“Nuh-uh.”

Scrooge smirked. “Go ahead then, lift your arms and prove your well enough to head out.”

Under normal circumstances, Donald could easily escape from the hold his uncle had him in. But right now, with his muscles weakened from the virus, all he could do is strain helplessly against his captor and caretaker. He pushed and he pushed, but he barely budged his trapped arms. Exhausted, he flopped his head back against the pillows, frustrated he couldn’t accomplish the show of force he needed to escape.

Scrooge chuckled at his futile attempt and wiggled his limp limbs. “Heh! Look at that, you’ve got no fight in ya’ at all.” He moved Donald’s arms like a puppeteer, laughing with amusement at how easy it was to manipulate the boy’s limbs.

Donald tried to jerk his arms from Scrooge’s hold but failed to do even that. He affixed a snarl on his face, if he couldn’t fight with strength, then he’d have to use his words. “Glad _someone’s _enjoying himself.”

“Oh, girn and fash all you want, boy-o, but it won’t make you any less ill.” Scrooge stopped playing with his arms, letting them lie on the bedspread, his hands still gripped loosely around the boy’s wrists.

“I’m not sick,” Donald sulked, “And stop treating me like a little kid. I’m an adult!”

“That so?” Scrooge mused, “Well I beg to differ. You’re obviously sick as a dog. What’s more: Adults don’t push themselves to the point of collapse. Adults have the good sense to take time off to recover from illness. Adults don’t show up at their relative’s doorstop half-dead and delirious. Adults definitely don’t puke on their uncle’s freshly shined spats on the ride home. Adults—”

Donald cringed at each allegation Scrooge listed off, growing more embarrassed with each one. “Ok! Ok! I get it,” he cried, thumping his hands angrily against the bedspread. 

Scrooge finally let go of Donald so he could cross his arms. “Do you? Because you just insisted a minute ago you were well enough to go into work.”

Opening his bill to snark back, Donald was cut off by a series of explosive wet coughs. With a sigh, Scrooge rubbed his back until the fit subsided. Donald croaked out a sullen little thank you under his breath, hanging his head as he settled into a proper sulk. 

Scrooge used a finger to tilt Donald head up, making him look at him squarely. “Just being grown doesn’t make you an adult. If you can’t take care of yourself, or exercise enough common sense to ask for help, then I am going to treat you in an appropriate manner. To wit—like a toddler in a huff. Understood?”

Donald stared at him for a moment before dropping his eyes from Scrooge’s stern gaze. “Yes, sir,” was all he could meekly mumble in return.

Scrooge pulled his hand from his nephew’s chin and moved to pat his head, looking pleased. “Good boy.” Patting his hands on his thighs, Scrooge pushed against them to lift himself off of Donald bed.

His motion froze halfway when he heard Donald mutter underneath his breath: “I’m _fine _though.”

Sitting back down with a groan, Scrooge cradled his head in his hands for an exasperated moment. The McDuck’s were stubborn folk certainly, but this? This was plain ridiculous. “Ach, Donald.” He dragged a weary hand down his face before turning to look at Donald again. For a moment, he swore he saw that angry little boy from years before, protesting as his uncle cared for him while on a visit from Elvira’s farm. The vision faded just as quickly as it came, and staring back at him was an adult Donald, just as petulant despite his years. 

“Listen,” Scrooge poked Donald’s chest to make him pay attention, “if your boys were ill, would you make them go to school?”

“No, of course not!” Donald crossed his arms. “I’m not a monster, I wouldn’t make them attend school if they weren’t feeling well.”

“So why aren’t you treating yourself with the same kindness you treat them?” Scrooge poked him in the chest as he made his point.

Donald didn’t have a good answer for that. His anger was falling away under the heavy weight of sheepishness. Whether he liked it or not, Scrooge had a point: if he wouldn’t treat his loved ones the same way he treated himself, then it didn’t reflect well on his own estimation of his self.

Scrooge’s stern look softened as Donald withered slightly under his words. Silently, he pulled Donald into a stiff, little hug, patting his back awkwardly. For a moment, Donald tensed before relaxing somewhat into his uncle’s hug, wrapping his arms around his uncle tightly but uncertainly.

With Donald pulled up against him, Scrooge could feel the heat radiate from the lad’s body, his back slightly damp to the touch after sweating while he rested. Cautiously, Scrooge rubbed the back of Donald’s neck with a light touch. He wondered if Donald would be acting this way if it were Elvira here to look after him instead of his grouchy, mean ol’ Uncle Scrooge.

He heard Donald sniffle a little, whether it was from getting choked up or just plain congestion, Scrooge couldn’t tell. He pulled away and stood up, “You still haven’t taken any medicine. I’ll go fetch some for you.” Before he walked out the door, he turned back to fix Donald with another stern look. “No funny business, you hear? I’ll be right back. So, don’t even think of moving.”

Donald watched Scrooge softly shut the door to his room as he exited. He idly eyed the window, wondering if his uncle had anticipated his attempt to escape out of it. The snow would cushion his fall, right? He sighed heavily, crossing his arms over his stomach. Fine, he thought, I’ll stay put and let the old man look after me. But I don’t have to _like _it. Or... he could at least continue to pretend he didn't like it.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have more to add to this, but I figured for the sake of actually getting something out that it was better to just do a second chapter instead of prolong this already late fic.


End file.
